


Observations

by felandaris



Series: Caboodles and Chantry Boys [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Play, Angst, Consensual Sex, Dirty Talk, Ear Kink, Established Relationship, F/M, Finger Sucking, M/M, Oral Sex, Smut, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism, Yaoi, ice ice baby, three-way kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-21 13:44:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4831235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felandaris/pseuds/felandaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time she's the one watching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nerves

**Author's Note:**

> Re-post as AO3 was showing the wrong posting date.  
>   
> Inspired by two comments on [Splashes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4604643): kirasdream13 on the boys' comfort around each other and harbingerofwhymsy on Cullen's dominance. Thought I'd mix that up a little, and there was another fic idea. Thank you, ladies!  
>   
>   
> Where is the Hero of Ferelden in all this?[ See here!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3700610)

_  
Just what_ is _he doing?_   He has no idea. Sitting here in the twilight, above a near-naked body he’s not touching.

 

Hovering, staring. Nervous gaze flickering across a hammering pulse point; the transition of alabaster skin into a light tan; a rosy nipple, wreathed by fine strawberry blonde hairs.

 

They’ve done this before- fond memories of something spontaneous, playful. Tonight they wanted to take it a step further. And here he is, put on the spot. Frozen into place like an adolescent boy.

 

Waiting eyes are seeking his- and he continues to avoid them, hides from the fear of rejection looming within.

 

He turns towards where she is sitting. Sprawled out on the chaise longue behind him, looking every bit the utter goddess she is. The moonlight’s faint glow is illuminating select portions of her body, but his mind fills in what he can’t see.

 

The sheer gleam of lace-trimmed stockings outlining the stretch of her legs. A delicate garter belt framing her hips, the same shade of sin as the whisper of silk over her crotch. Argent shimmer tracing the bare swell of her breasts, taut peaks pointing at the ceiling.

 

She’s returning his look, observing, anticipating. Sensing his predicament. Smiling in reassurance, but that nearly makes it worse.

 

As he turns back his frown deepens. He’s barely half-hard at this point, the pleasant buzz from the earlier drinks fading into a headache.

 

Being used to commanding, he’s comfortable giving the two of them gentle instructions. Now that he’s the one being instructed he’s paralysed, shocked into helpless inactivity.

 

 _What if he does it wrong? Hurts him? What exactly is it she’d like him to do? Or he, for that matter?_  Fear of failure creeps up his bones; a cold shiver, painfully familiar. Its only remedy used to be the blue demon he’s finally overcome.

 

He reaches deep down, to the place that held the determination to battle his addiction. Gathers the courage to look Alistair in the eye.

 

Layers of hurt, disappointment and repressed anger glare back at him. They’ve grown over years, into scars like the ones adorning Alistair’s body. Underneath gleams a spark of hope, of a timid trust this man is extending towards him.He believes in Cullen. Wants him. But he cannot, _must not_  be hurt again.

 

This sliver of trust, this flicker of affection tugs at him. It sends a hot flush down his chest, an urging tingle into his fingers and fresh desire surging to his cock. When it stirs he releases a shaky exhale, only realising now he was holding his breath.

 

Cullen huffs at himself.  _Might he be overthinking this?_

**_____________________________________**

 

Alistair can sense the hesitation. It sits between them like a barrier he wishes away but doesn't quite know how to make go.

 

He can empathise, far more than Cullen might realise. Though this isn’t the first time together, it’s different. Before it was tickles, smooches and happy rutting.  _And now?_

Now the confident commander sits there hapless, lost in sudden doubt. Alistair wants to show him it’s all right. He decides to try.

 

His hand trembles when he extends it. A hesitant caress across a stubbly jaw, over weathered yet soft skin and a smooth scar. Nothing happens at first. Then Cullen’s head turns, a fraction per heartbeat. His eyes fall closed and he rests his cheek against Alistair’s palm. He remains like that for a moment before his lips pucker for a tiny kiss between slender fingers.

 

There’s a sigh and a change in Cullen’s posture that he’s happy to accept as a cue. Alistair reaches for that head of curls, dares to smile when Cullen leans in.

 

Their noses rub, and they search each other’s eyes before their lips decide for them.

 

The first touch of their mouths is faint with yet-lingering uncertainty. As it deepens, relief radiates from each other’s lips, bubbling up into longing. It’s reminiscent of their first kiss- an exploration, cautious at first but getting bolder with each brush of their tongues, every audible smack of lips. When Alistair feels Cullen’s scar twitch he can’t help but give it a languid, indulgent lick-  _like that time at Skyhold all those months ago_. They share a knowinggrin and kiss again, harder.

 

Soon searching hands join in and,  _at last_ , rutting ensues.

 

**_____________________________________**

 

Faded notes of crisp wine. Mint. A tangy hint of fine cheese. And warmth, slick and soft, leaving him aching for more. He’d forgotten how delicious this man is. Cullen grunts, leaning back to catch his breath. At once he’s drawn in by the sight in front of him.

 

Alistair is facing him, resting on his elbows. His back is arched, neck stretched out, daring him to have a nibble.

 

He is  _beautiful_. Elegant in his grace. Tempting as sin itself in his lustful surrender. Cullen’s hands and mouth couldn’t move fast enough for all the things he’d like to do. His Majesty’s surprised moan rings sweetly in his ears when Cullen pounces on him.

 

Alistair’s throat is first; a lick up its smooth stretch, a bite at the pulse point. Blood shooting to his groin at the sound he elicits. Up his jawline, fresh stubble scraping his lips. Fragrant, soapy bitterness.

 

A quick flick of his tongue against a plump earlobe. He jumps back when Alistair shudders almost violently, whimpering some unintelligible plea. Cullen gawks at him, trying to assess the reaction. His puzzled expression becomes a smirk, smug and salacious, when he realises Alistair’s stare is  _begging_  for more.

 

_He enjoyed that._

 

Without another thought he’s back on him. This time his teeth worry the same lobe; digging in lightly at first, deeper when Alistair sighs, his arms giving way so he’s flat on his back.  _Under him_. Another tug, and those slim hips buck up. Cullen is bewildered and utterly aroused at the same time. He’s never seen this response to the mere caress of an ear. And he won’t have much time to reflect on his discovery. Alistair’s hands are now on his shoulders, all but shoving him into his heaving chest, beckoning him to continue. So he does.

 

He traces the delicate shell’s outline all the way to the top, delighting in the shiver that runs through the body underneath him. The same motion again, and again with a few added flicks of his tongue. Alistair writhes against him- chest, stomach and cock, swollen and ready. Fingers dig into his back, scratch down his spine. Cullen can’t get enough. When he reaches the ear’s thin tip he gives a quick bite then catches it between his lips. And sucks.

 

Cullen will never forget the low, wanton sound Alistair makes as his back arches off the bed. He continues rutting into the man above him; rubbing his length up and down, desperate for more. And Cullen is happy to oblige. Playing with his ear, teasing without mercy. Breathing his approval in sultry whispers until Alistair whines as if in pain, turning away. When his eyes meet Cullen’s he’s panting, pupils blown impossibly wide.

 

_He’s that close._

 

Full lips open a fraction then stop. There’s something he wants to say but doesn’t.

 

Cullen speaks instead. “What would you like, Alistair?” His own voice surprises him. All inhibitions now absorbed by almost-blinding lust, he sounds hoarse, dark,  _predatory_.

 

It’s Alistair’s hand that answers, grasping his own to place it where he’s hot and stiff. Cullen hisses at the throb against his palm, only a thin layer of cotton in between.

 

The sturdy bed’s creaks and the rustling of sheets mingle in with the sounds of their desire as they go at one another. More feeling than seeing, they take their time exploring the other’s body. Grinding, gripping, groping; smelling, savouring, listening. Pressing flesh against flesh, skin onto feverish skin, as if trying to melt into each other.

 

Cullen isn’t sure when he lost his smalls. All he knows is he’s intoxicated- bewitched by Alistair, his body, his caresses. His own cock is stretching, filling, swelling to its full size. Nice and heavy in his hand. ( _And Maker, can he think of places to put it_.)

 

Her tipsy giggle rings in his head once more, anything but intimidating now.

 

_I want to watch you_

 

Cullen allows his tongue to brush across Alistair’s bottom lip before leaning back, running curious fingertips down his neck; over puckered nipples; grazing tickly ribs before they settle on his underpants.

_Play a little_

A swift pull, one fluid motion. Out springs thick, rigid magnificence. Greeting him like a delectable sweet, a tempting toy. The base is adorned by a scattered few hairs. A thick vein pulses blue and irate along the gentle curve. From a thin mantle of skin the crimson head peaks out, dark slit pointing at him rather invitingly.

 

Cullen licks his lips.

 

_Maybe use your mouths, too._

 

And he does.

 

First is a peck on shockingly soft skin. It evokes a twitch and the sweetest little  _ah_. Cullen’s nose runs down Alistair’s length, breathing him in. Once at the bottom his tongue sneaks out in a slow, deliberate stretch. Blood pounds in his ears at the first contact. He tastes clean and of more.

 

A strangled moan pours from Cullen’s outstretched tongue as he describes a warm, wet and torturously slow upwards path. He senses rather than sees his stomach muscles quivering, powerful thighs trembling. Stopping at the bulbous crown, he looks at Alistair, who is watching, mouth open in a silent enunciation.

 

Cullen’s fingers wrap around the shaft, smoother than his own. His tongue flicks around the head, once, twice, then swipes across the slit. Alistair groans in shocked delight. Shaky fingertips brush down Cullen’s face.

 

Under his king’s,  _his lover’s_  keen stare, he takes firm hold of the base, tugging back the skin. And from there it falls into place.

 

In a fleeting second’s consideration he recalls something about lips covering teeth. It’s what he does as his mouth closes around that wide head. Meaty girth stretches him as he sucks, his wet sounds a perfect harmony to Alistair’s croaked half-words.

 

He repeats the motion, his hand pumping, until Alistair’s hips begin rocking, grinding into his mouth. Without further consideration Cullen removes his hand and swallows him down.

 

Tears sting in his eyes and his throat burns, more so when Alistair arches up, invading his mouth further. But he wants to continue, is driven on by those helpless little sounds, by the urge to complete this familiar yet new act.

 

Cullen wills his mouth to relax, to accommodate the length and width. Holding the base, head   traversing upwards, his tongue darts out, poking at the top. A short, daring glance before he dives in again, relishing each of Alistair’s groans and bucks as he falls into a rhythm, steady and sinful.

 

Somewhere between a swivel and a bob something catches his attention. The faint scent of another barrier to be breached. Dark, musky, enticing.

 

Making sure Alistair is watching, he pauses to wet his own thumb, his tongue tracing allusive circles. He grins, watches Alistair bites his lip as the slick digits slides backwards, beyond his scrotum, to rest between those round buttocks.

 

Heat beckons him, and he caresses the virginal opening, humming along with Alistair’s expectant whimpers. His eyes widen in fascination when he pushes, and pushes. And then his thumb disappears  _inside_  Alistair, who cries out, tensing up.

 

Cullen stops, on the verge of freezing again. But Alistair’s not grasping his wrist to keep him away. He’s nudging, urging him further in- like that tight ring of muscles is doing, clutching at his thumb.

 

A new rush of lust surges through him, proud and possessive. Leaning in, he tongues the neglected sac, draws it into his mouth. Watches how Alistair’s head rolls and his brow pinches, one lick away from ecstasy.

 

With a growl Cullen is back on his erection- lapping, slurping, wanting it all now.

 

His thumb never stops its exploration, pressing harder when he finds the spot that pulls a desperate howl from Alistair. He’s flyingup and down now; trying to taste, suck,  _absorb_ as much of him as possible. Meeting the shallow thrusts that are becoming more insistent as the sac in his hand tightens.

 

The briefest flash of panic when the glans twitches. But he’ll see this through, stay with him. Then thought evades him and it’s all sensation.

 

Spend hitting his palate; hot, salty cream. An overspill, sticky dribble down his chin. Tangy musk. Wild spasms. Skin warming with flush. Muscles quivering, an entire body quaking. His voice breaking with Cullen’s name,  _his name_  as Alistair spills the last of his seed before tremors quieten into trembles, heaves into sighs.

 

Cullen only notices the sweat at his brow when it cools as he makes a slow and reluctant withdrawal. Looking up at Alistair’s dishevelled, boneless form, his chest swells with affection.

 

 _He did this._  Shock, pride, painful arousal pulsate in his veins at the sight.

 

As soon as he moves up Alistair pulls him in, moaning when their tongues touch.  _He’s tasting himself._ Cullen grabs him by the hair, dragging him into his face, his body. His own release can wait as he savours this moment, this man.

 

When they break apart both are out of breath, sharing sheepish grins and bashful looks. Foreheads resting against each other, they rub their noses together then snigger. Another kiss, just the lips this time. Light, slow and tender. Rough fingertips brush a ginger lock from a heated cheek.

 

They share another look, gleamingwith fresh zest. And mischief. A brief waggle of Alistair’s eyebrows, and Cullen nods. Both turn towards the chaise longue where their next target is still watching.

 

_They’re far from finished._


	2. Friction

Tongues sneaking out to wet swollen lips. Eyes blazing with lust even in the near-dark. Thick, appetising erections bobbing against taut abdomens.

 

Though they’re less than ten feet away, their approach is a slow, agonising stalk to where she’s pressing herself into the chaise longue’s plush depths. Step after graceful step pounds in her ears. Her heartbeat picks up with each glance down her stomach, across her bosom, between her legs.

                                                  

Their breathing is ragged, their poise predatory,greedy.

                                                  

They’re coming for her. Coming to ravish every single inch of her.

 

And is she ever ready. Watching passion win out over inhibition, seeing the sweaty tangle of their bodies has left her flushed and sopping, reduced to her most carnal instincts. All she wants is to kiss, rut, _fuck_ ; be taken, claimed, spilled into.

 

Then they’re there and pounce on her like two starving beasts. Trevelyan’s gleeful cry is swallowed up by Alistair’s lips, muffled by his tongue shoving into her mouth. At once she’s enveloped by heat and hardness; covered by searching palms, by lips imprinting on her. Cullen’s length fits nicely between her buttocks, and he bites her shoulder as he rubs against her smalls. Alistair’s nimble fingers tug at a nipple, pulling it long. Her pearl jumps.

 

Trevelyan’s own hands and lips aren’t resting, couldn’t if she tried. Tracing deep muscular reliefs, scraping over wide shoulders, nibbling at a tender neck. Finally enjoying what they’ve made her so wet for with their sloppy kisses, the shameless moans; with the way they fucked against each other so delightfully.

 

The three are upright on their knees touching, tasting and smelling their way up and down the others’ bodies. Open lips tracing aimless paths across heated skin. Hands seeking the place, the pressure that will elicit the sweetest sound. And she’s caught in the middle; deliciously wedged between sweat, muscle and cock.

 

A hand between her legs, probing at her knickers. Catching her tiny shaft between two fingers through the damp material. She recognises Cullen’s assertive touch, reclines into him, rests her arms around his neck.

 

But it’s Alistair who freesher. Letting go of the breast he was kneading, his gaze finds hers. He grasps the thin fabric in both hands, grinning when it tears, leaving her in stockings and belt. Curious fingertips run down her sides while eager eyes roam across freshly bared skin.

 

Cullen parts her, tracing a torturous line upwards from her perineum to stop just shy of her button. She can _hear_ his finger’s slippery drag, tries to buck into it, coax him inside. But he chuckles, bringing the digit up to his mouth, and she knows he’s sucking off her nectar. Then a swallow, a hum and a throaty question.

 

“What got you so wet, Lady Trevelyan?” His baritone’s dark rumble, the play of his lips against her ear leave her nipples a tad harder, her quim a little slicker.

 

“Was it seeing our King spill himself?” He grasps Alistair’s cock, brings it up to her slit, drawing surprised hisses from them.

 

“Or perhaps wanting to be the one he spills _on_?” Cullen pulls back one of the slim garters, lets it snap against a plump cheek. She winces withdelight.

 

The commander is back, taking charge. Speaking to every single nerve in her body.

 

Another brush of his finger, a fleeting dip into her moist depths. She watches as he extends the digit over her shoulder towards Alistair, swiping across his bottom lip before it disappears. They lock eyes as Alistair sucks, the tension of their newfound intimacy burning between them. When he releases the digit with a wet plop Alistair turns to her, licks his lips before he purrs, “ _De_ -licious.”

 

Trevalyan whimpers, haplessly rutting back and forth. She needs him, craves them both.

 

But for now it’s more teasing. Cullen kneads her bum while gently thrusting forward, rubbing along her opening; both relaxing and infuriating.

 

Alistair grabs a few shreds of half-melted ice from the nearby bucket that held their wine. Grinning at her expectant look, he swirls them over the top of her chest. Trevelyan gasps at the icy shock on her flushed skin; watches, open-mouthed, as he circles in and the melting drops pearl over her nipples; sighs, grabs his hair as warm lips join the freezing tickle. Air leaves her lungs when he grabs a ripe breast, suckling her like a hungry child. Under his searing greed and the cold drizzle her breasts grow tighter, heavier; her peaks, _impossibly_ , pucker further.

 

Her moan draws out into a sob, for in that moment Cullen’s cock breaches her, pushing in. There’s not an ounce of hurry in his movement as he fills her. “Feel this,” he whispers against her neck, grunting in utter captivation as the head opens her, thick ridge sliding past her labia. Then it’s the wide base stretching, smooth skin caressing her, the big vein pumping. A new sensation with each laboured breath as he impales her on that glorious shaft.

 

Her tongue darts out without aim, catching a salty bead of sweat possibly from Alistair’s temple. She laps it up, muffling her desperate cry as Cullen’s fat length all but splits her apart.

 

Trevelyan leans back, hums when Alistair’s mouth traverses down her body, drawing nearer, threat and promise alike.

 

But when he’s there, it’s not her that he tends to.

 

A strangled curse from behind has her eyes flying open, turning downwards. It’s all she can do not to come undone there and then at the sight.

 

Alistair is kneeling before her.

 

_Licking Cullen where he’s moving in and out of her._

_Pink tongue poking at the heavy sac. Sucking in one of the delicate rounds. Swirling it around in his mouth as Cullen groans unintelligibly, gripping her shoulders, struggling for control._

_Alistair moaning, stroking himself._

 

By the time he withdraws Cullen is heaving, trembling.

 

Alistair holds her stare as he reaches for another ice chip. Eyes dark and heavy with ferocious desire, he pops it into his mouth and chews. Slowly. Audibly.

 

Then he moves in.

 

Trevelyan comes the second his icy mouth grazes her nub. Her vision blurs then explodes in white light. Warmth spreads through her, fills her every pore. Alistair nurses her through it, pulling the fleshy bundle deep between those pouty lips. Drawing everything from her until she’s writhing, on the verge of _too much_. Cullen shudders at her quivering around him, his hips slowing in an attempt not to join her yet.

 

Coming to resembles diving up from under water, emerging back into clarity.

 

Her first impulse is to drag Alistair up, invade his mouth, pull him close. At the same time Cullen grabs her hair, pulling her face backwards. Then they’re all kissing- she doesn't quite know how but they are. Lapping, slurping, drinking each other in. Tongues, lips, teeth, hair; spit, her essence, Cullen’s flavour allblendinto one hot, sticky mess. The world consists only of them, their lust, affection and the plush seat.

                                                                                                                     

Cullen tilts her forward, evoking a yelp as he adjusts the angle to take her proper.

 

Trevelyan topples over, supporting herself against Alistair’s chest. Her hand finds his shaft, _still a little slick from Cullen’s mouth_. It’s smooth and heavy, sliding up and down between her fingers. She licks her lips watching the head disappear and emerge. Relishing the hitch in Alistair’s breath, the shallow rolls of his hips. Reaching out to smack a buttock, feeling it flex as her ruts into her grip. Delighting in sound of her name, of _theirs_ , among the wet and obscene sounds they draw from each other.

 

Suddenly it’s no longer her hand but Cullen’s. A squeeze around the crown, harder than she would dare, eliciting noises unlike the ones he’d give her. Cullen leans in, closes his lips around Alistair’s earlobe and sucks. Alistair’s mewl resonates deep between her legs, as do Cullen’s quick, hard thrusts.

 

“Will you come for us like a good boy?” he croons, taking the lobe between his teeth, tugging like he’s tugging Alistair. Meeting the desperate bucks against his eager palm. All she can do is watch in fascination as Alistair blindly grabs at her, his brow pinches and his entire body goes rigid. Her mouth drops open when he croaks sweet, breathless nothings. Spurting hot and high through Cullen’s fingers, onto her belly, her _breasts_. The sight, the sound, the _feel_ of this man so utterly lost in his pleasure has her awed, titillated and beyond hungry.

 

When Alistair collapses against her, she holds him, _onto_ him as Cullen fucks her with all he’s got, hitting the spot that makes her eyes cross. Each stroke, every hasty inhale bears a sound, a tingle that brings her nearer.

 

Someone’s practiced fingers stroke where she’s hard and swollen, rubbing in her own juice, and she knows she’s done for.

 

“Show me,” a hushed _oh_ , a salty curse, “show me, love.”

 

Cullen’s whisper, his thrusts, their skin and smell cumulate into a coil, a spiral of inescapable pleasure claiming the entirety of her being. She gasps, howls; shakes, clenches. Vaguely notices Alistair supporting them both as Cullen grunts into her hair, spending himself deep inside her. Allows herself to be claimed by complete bliss, shared only with her dearest.

 

When it subsides, when their breathing slows, they slump down against the backrest. The tingle under her skin warms into deep, all-encompassing fulfilment. Fingers intertwine, foreheads touch and giddy chuckles ring. Reluctance slows their movements and little huffs can be heard when the late evening’s chill invades their lazy comfort, forcing them to get up.

 

Somehow they manage to stumble over towards the bed. She thinks it’s Alistair carrying her.

 

Afterglow is peaceful and tender. Tonight their kisses are slower, deeper than usual. Caresses linger. Contentment radiates from their sluggish bodies, the play of feet, the washcloth’s gentle swipes. Trevelyan cradles Alistair’s head into her bosom, stroking Cullen’s curls as she sings a quiet tune of meadows and home. Soon soft, endearing snores draw a smile onto her tired face. It isn’t long before the Fade claims her too.

 

They wake early the next morning. And this time Cullen knows exactly what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like, yeah? Leave kudos? Cause gratitude.  
>   
> Thank you for reading! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> [Find me (and the boys) on Tumblr!](https://http://cullenstairshenanigans.t%20Tumblr.com) ʘ‿ʘ


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